


Such a Difference Between Us

by Nazmuko



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Angst, Based on an Adele Song, F/M, break-up, post iwtb
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-14
Updated: 2016-05-14
Packaged: 2018-06-08 07:39:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 10,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6845434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nazmuko/pseuds/Nazmuko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a Mulder-sized empty spot by her side, right there by her shoulder where he used to burst into her personal space like the concept was completely foreign to him.<br/>(Post-IWTB, ignores revival though the story was inspired by the break-up spoiler. The rise and fall - or more like the fall and what might be a new beginning-  of their relationship, written around Adele's album "25" with each chapter titled with and inspired by a song on the album.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hello

**Author's Note:**

> Plan: Take Adele's album "25", write one chapter inspired by and titled with a song on the album, in order, so that it tells one story instead of being 11 separate song fics.
> 
> Process: Six months of writing, swearing, screaming, tearing my hair out, giving up, starting over and most of all, listening to the album over and over and over again and never growing bored of it.
> 
> End result: 10 000 words of... emotions. If you've listened to the album, you'll have an idea what to expect. You shall be the judges about whether it was worth it or not. There is not a whole lot of happiness in this story but there's hope, and there's beauty, and there's love. Sometimes it's not enough and sometimes it's all you need.
> 
> All mistakes are mine (including inaccuracies in the song lyrics quoted) and English is not my first language.  
> All recognizable characters, settings and lyrics belong to their lawful owners, I am simply borrowing them for entertainment purposes with no profit made. No infringement intended.
> 
> My endless gratitude to Lindsey, River and Priya for encouragement and the whole NCA for keeping me sane(ish) through this journey.
> 
> Some chapters take place in present, some are flashbacks.  
> To avoid confusion about the jumps in time, please pay attention to the date listed in the beginning of each chapter.  
> I strongly recommend you to listen to the songs of as you read the chapters.

_Hello, it's me_  
_I was wondering if after all these years you'd like to meet_  
_To go over everything_  
_They say that time's supposed to heal ya, but I ain't done much healing_

DANA SCULLY'S APARTMENT, NOVEMBER 2014

He's six time zones in her past. She wishes it were that simple to leave him behind, catalogue him as part of her history. But truth is that his presence, or lack of it, follows her wherever she goes. There's a Mulder-sized empty spot by her side, right there by her shoulder where he used to burst into her personal space like the concept was completely foreign to him. Sometimes she swears she can feel the air move around her like he was walking half a step behind her, gazing over her shoulder at whatever she's reading.

It's been two years now, and she doesn't flinch anymore when she finds the other side of the bed empty when she stirs awake from a nightmare, but every now and then she still finds herself glancing over her shoulder and saying "Muld-" when something particularly interesting or amusing happens, before she realizes he's not there anymore. It happened again today, and she feels like this time she reached a limit of some kind. She's tired. Tired of missing him, tired of living with the ghost of a man who's still alive on the other side of the ocean, tired of her own regrets.

The alarm clock on her bedside table paints the time 02:07 with bold, bright red numbers, the only illumination in her quiet bedroom. The scent of pinewood still lingers in the air from earlier tonight when she lit a scented candle because she was suddenly feeling nostalgic for the oddest things like their little trips to forests that usually ended in varying levels of disaster.

She has been trying so hard to make this place hers but when she closes her eyes and thinks of home, it's not these walls she sees. She sees an old couch in the soft, bluish light filtering through a fish tank. Or a squeaky floor in the house they shared, the way he never learned to avoid that one plank on his way to the bathroom in the middle of the night. She sees his smile, the look of utter awe that used to light up his face when he looked at her and realized she was his, over and over again, every single day until... until she wasn't. Or maybe she always will be, maybe it was him who was not hers anymore. Or maybe they both will belong to each other until the end of days but they just couldn't be together, the hell if she knows anymore.

It is Friday evening for him, little after eight, she does the math for the millionth time in her head. She has tried calling him at all possible times over the last six months - morning, afternoon, evening, even in the middle of the night - but he never picks up. She used to let it ring all the way until the machine picked up, but hearing his voice was starting to hurt too much and she always hangs up after the third ring now.

After two years, she is running out of work and family crises to keep her mind busy. The reasons that brought her here are gone now and she finds herself thinking of him more often than not, wondering how he's doing. She lets herself get lost in the happier memories for a moment, a guilty pleasure she does not indulge in too often because the return trip to reality is painful and the thought of living in a happy illusion is too tempting some days.

When she next glances at the clock, it is 02:28 already. Half past eight on a Friday evening. He'll probably be on the couch with a good beer and a bad movie.

She takes a deep breath and picks up the phone. He's on the first speed dial, like he has been for twenty years now. Even during that first year in Europe, when saying his name out loud felt impossible and there was no way she could have handled hearing his voice, his number was always there. A comfort blanket of sorts, she guesses. Nowadays it is the number she calls the most often, even if he never picks up and she never says a word.

The phone rings for the first time, second... Her throat constricts a little at the third one, and the next feels like someone was cutting her chest open with a dull knife. She can't put the phone down, though, not this time. Something broke inside her today and she is done pretending she doesn't miss him. Finally the machine picks up.

 _Fox Mulder here._ He sounds playful, but she swears she can hear sadness underneath his fake smile. Or that could be just her, reflecting her own emotions on him. _If I'm not picking up, I'm probably chasing a monster of some kind or just don't wanna talk with you._ The message is new, and she wonders if the last part was aimed at her. _Feel free to leave a message, though. More for me to ignore._

The beep sounds awfully loud in her ear, but for some reason she still can't bring herself to put the phone down.

"Mulder?" she finally says, and her voice only quivers a little bit. "It's me. Scully."

* * *

THE UNREMARKABLE HOUSE, NOVEMBER 2014

He has to pause the DVD when he hears her voice. The words are familiar, but the way she whispers his name hesitantly is new, and the way she feels the need to add her name in the end brings a dull ache in his chest. Sure, it has been two years since they exchanged a single word. But it has been over twenty years since she sneaked under his skin and even if he scrubs himself raw in the shower, he can't get her out. She's a full-body tattoo, carved right underneath his skin with short stabs of sharp pain over time, impossible to remove. Even if she's on the other side of the world, she will always be a part of him.

_"I'm coming to DC next week. Just a quick visit to see my Mom. I know it's been years and you owe me nothing but... if you'd like to meet, I'd... I'd like that. Maybe talk about this. It. Us. How we... How I..."_

She heaves a sigh and he can imagine her rubbing that spot between her eyebrows that always tenses up when she's stressed or tired. He wonders if she's wearing her glasses. It must be late in Germany. Or perhaps early. Is she still awake or did she wake up thinking of him and pick up the phone?

He wonders if she sleeps in the T-shirt she stole from him when she left. He wonders the oddest things about her nowadays, when he finally lets himself think about her.

_"I'm sorry, Mulder. I'm sorry for leaving the way I did. I'm sorry for running away instead of facing the problems. I'm sorry for breaking your heart."_

She sounds tired, and he wonders what made her reach the breaking point and say those words out loud. She sounds like it has been too long since she last smiled and that thought hurts even more than the fact that she's gone. So far he has been able to lie to himself that wherever she is, she's happy now that she finally broke free of his self-destructive gravity that was threatening to pull her into the darkness.

He looks around the living room of the house they bought together back when they were... he wants to say happy but he wonders if they ever were. Better? Back when they were a team, a unit that worked together like a well oiled machine. There was laughter in this house. And then there was darkness and then, for a long time, there was nothing of significance, just a ghost of a man lying in the corner and staring at the ceiling.

It looks different now. He has moved the furniture around a little, painted the walls, hidden away some of the pictures Scully gathered on the mantle over the years. They are slowly finding their way back, though, as the memories slowly stop hurting and he finds himself able to look at the smiling faces and remember the good times with gratitude.

All he can hear next is her breathing. Deep, even breaths, like she's focusing hard on keeping it together. He wonders if she is gathering courage to continue or to hang up.

 _"In case you actually listened this whole rambling message before deleting... Thank you."_ Then she gives him her phone number, the same one he knows by heart already, the one that is saved on the first speed dial of both his cell phone and the landline. Maggie gave it to him the Christmas after Scully left. It was scribbled on the edge of a cheerful holiday card of what appeared to be drunk reindeers. He sent her a beautiful card with a baby Jesus lying on hay under bright stars, with his parents by his side. Wordless apology and forgiveness offered in the simple act of them both venturing outside their comfort zone for the sake of the other one.

Maggie came over on December 26th, filled his fridge and freezer with Christmas leftovers and home-cooked meals, did three loads of laundry and hugged him so tight he had bruises for days. They probably talked a little but he has no memory what about. Not Scully, that much is certain. She made a few visits after that, too, with the same agenda. Even helped him find a therapist who finally got through his defences enough to make a difference.

" _I went to see her after Melissa's death. I know your grief is at a whole different level, Fox, but please give her a call. Perhaps she can help you, too."_

He never understood how a woman who buried her husband and her daughter within a year could possibly think his pain was _anything_ compared to hers, but somehow she seemed to understand. He took the card and he made the call, and that probably saved his life. Funny how it's always the Scully women who pull him out of his darkest moments and back into the light.

On the answering machine Scully breathes in, and out, then draws in a long, shaky breath and holds it for three seconds before hanging up. It finally hits him that she knew he would be there, right by the machine. She knew, but not once did she ask him to pick up the phone. Perhaps she knows he would do anything for her simple, whispered _please_.


	2. Send My Love

_I'm giving you up_  
_I've forgiven it all_  
_You set me free, oh_  
_Send my love to your new lover_  
_Treat her better_  
_We gotta let go of all of our ghosts_  
_We've both know we ain't kids no more_

THE UNREMARKABLE HOUSE, JANUARY 2015

 _"It's me,"_ she starts yet another voicemail message and once again he thinks about how he misses hearing his name in front of that. Except for that first call, she never uses his name. At least she has stopped introducing herself.

This has become a habit of sorts. She calls every Friday evening and every Friday evening he makes sure to be home so he can sit on the floor next to the answering machine and not pick up. Now he's in the kitchen, though, getting himself a cup of coffee. He has time. She always chats for a while.

Usually she talks about the little things. How her day at work was, what are her plans for the weekend... Sometimes she talks about the big things as well. She has stopped apologizing, but the remorse is obvious in her voice when she talks about the two of them sometimes, be that the good times or the bad. This time there is something else in her voice that he doesn't recognize.

_"I spoke with my Mom. She had seen you the other day. I know you're wondering why she didn't come say hi and the reason is that you were with someone."_

His throat constricts a little bit and he has a pretty clear idea already where this is going.

 _"It never occurred to me that-- It probably makes me a bad person. Actually, I know it does. I just never realized you might be with someone and that's why you're not picking up. I truly hope I haven't caused any trouble with your-- with her."_ She heaves a sigh and he's already making his way to the machine, coffee splashing over the sides of the cup as he rushes to pick up and explain. He trips over the vacuum cleaner and has to stop to breathe as the pain shoots up from his big toe and for a moment he's certain he broke it this time.

_"This is me letting you go, Mulder. I won't call you again. You have my number should you ever need it. I wish you all the best with her. I hope you're happy. I hope she's happy. I truly hope it works out better than we did, Mulder. You deserve happiness in your life."_

When he finally makes it to the machine and picks up the phone, he only hears the dialing tone. The way his name left her lips sounded wrong, like it was a challenge to get it out but she gathered her energy resources for one last time because she will never mention him again.

He hesitates exactly a second, then pushes speed dial one and holds his breath. She lets the machine pick up for her, and he finds himself at a loss for words.

"It's me." He finds himself unable to say her name out loud, even to her. "I'm... There's no one. The woman Maggie saw me with... We had coffee one day. Then we had a dinner becauses it felt like a good idea for some reason. And then we had ice cream few days later as she explained she doesn't date recently divorced men."

 _"You keep looking at your left hand like you can still see the ring there,"_ she told him, and he gave her a sad smile instead of an explanation because it felt easier to let her assume than to tell her that it's not a ring he expects to see, it's Scully's hand in his. Because sometimes he still feels her presence like a phantom pain of a missing limb and finds himself looking around, expecting to see her.

"I'm-" _Yours,_ he wants to say into the phone. _Still hoping for you to come home some day. Still sleeping with the light on._

"-sorry," he says instead. There are so many things he wants to say to her but it feels odd confessing them to her answering machine, even if he knows she's right there listening.

"I wasn't ready to talk when you asked to see me but maybe... maybe next time you're in DC. Give me a call if you'd still like to meet up."

He is almost certain she will never call, though. There was something _final_ in her voice when she called, something that said she had made a promise to herself and he knows how stubborn she can be with those. _This is me letting you go, Mulder_. What if he's not ready to be let go?

"I hope you're happy," he says because he feels like he owes her that much, a hint of something real, after all the long, deeply personal messages she has left in his answering machine. "I hope there are things, people, in your life now that make you smile. I miss seeing you smile."

More than that, he misses making her smile. He misses being the one who brought light and laughter into her life. Somehow, at some point, he became the one who brought pain and sadness instead, and he's not sure if he can ever forgive himself for that.

"I'm gonna hang up now," he says because he feels the need to warn her somehow, just in case she wants to pick up the phone. Not that he could handle hearing her voice right now but he wants to give her the chance she never gave him tonight.

"Goodnight," he says, because he can't bring himself to say goodbye. He lowers the phone in its cradle, the _cling_ awfully loud in the silence of the empty house. He heaves a sigh and runs his hands down his face.


	3. I Miss You

_I miss you when the lights go out_  
_It illuminates all of my doubts_  
_Pull me in, hold me tight_  
_Don't let go, baby give me light_  
_I miss you when the lights go out_  
_It illuminates all of my doubts_  
_Pull me in, hold me tight_  
_Don't let go, baby give me light_

THE UNREMARKABLE HOUSE, SEPTEMBER 2007

Of all her lovers he is the only one with whom she prefers to keep the lights on when they make love. She wants to remember every single detail, how his muscles ripple under his skin, how the droplets of sweat glide down his arms or his face, the way he trembles right before he tips over the edge, every single expression on his beautiful face as he shifts through different levels of pleasure.

Ever since they bought this house, she has insisted that he leaves at least the bedside lamp on for the night as they sleep. He used to fight her but now he just gives in and either buries his face against her skin or throws an arm over his eyes before he falls asleep. She lies awake watching him sleep, gently letting her fingertips caress his back, his biceps, every part of him that she can reach in whatever position they are curled up in. Tonight her head is resting on his chest, his steady heartbeat under her ear keeping her slowly easing her towards sleep.

It's late September now and there is a storm howling outside. She can almost feel it in the room with them, the cold chill of air drifting around, looking for something to destroy.

 _Not us_ , she silently tells the storm and draws lazy patters on his ribs with her fingertip. His left arm, the one that is wrapped around her upper back, tightens a little. His right one is thrown over his eyes to shield them from the lights that choose that exact moment to flicker once, twice, but then return. She heaves a relieved sigh against his chest. And then groans softly when the lights go out for good.

Something about the darkness brings out her doubts. They creep in when she is wandering the quiet, dimly lit corridors of the hospital in night shifts. She often finds herself wondering if this really is the life she wants to lead: a career in medicine and a fugitive partner hidden at home. She doesn't like the way their paths are separating now, yet she can't bring herself to get immersed in his quest either.

Even worse than doubts about her career are the doubts about the two of them. She can't imagine anything worse than feeling lonely when your limbs are intimately entangled with another human being after hours and hours of slow lovemaking but that is how she feels if she lets him turn out the lights and lies awake in the dark with her thoughts.

She can feel it right now, too, the odd kind of sadness sneaking in without her permission. Things are different now. They are together in a sense they never have been before, sharing a house and a life like husband and wife without the rings and the paperwork – not without vows because they have said plenty of those over the years - but at the same time they are more _separate_ than ever before, both pursuing their own passions, meeting in the middle in this house they bought. She's still trying to decide if it is a good thing or a bad thing.

"Whatcha thinkin'?" Mulder mumbles against her hair, and she wonders if she woke him up with her loud thoughts or if it was the storm.

"We lost electricity and I miss you," she finds herself whispering without really knowing what she means by it. She misses the way they were. But right now, in this very moment, she misses seeing him, seeing the way he looks at her. Things make sense as long as they're standing together in the light. It's the darkness that makes her lose her balance.

"I'm right here."

He offers to go start the diesel generator and she knows he would venture outside in the horrible winds and the rain just because she doesn't like sleeping in the dark, even if he has never truly understood why. She keeps forgetting things like that when she lies alone in the shadows with her thoughts, forgets how much he would be willing to do just to make her happy. He would go to the ends of the world because of her. Already has, actually.

"I think I'll manage for one night," she sighs and snuggles a little closer to him.

His hand starts trailing up and down her spine and she heaves a contented sigh, already feeling the anxieties leave her mind. This she can do. When she's with him, it all makes sense.

"Would it help if I made you see stars, baby?" he whispers in an overly cheesy tone and kisses the top of her head, his stubble tickling her forehead. She laughs out loud and swats him on the ribs for using the endearment she hates with passion.

"It might," she finally admits and he rolls them over with well practiced ease and starts peppering her collar bone with tiny kisses. She closes her eyes and lets him be the light that pushes the doubts from her mind.


	4. When We Were Young

_You look like a movie_  
_You sound like a song_  
_My God, this reminds me_  
_Of when we were young_

QUANTICO CAFETERIA, MARCH 2015

His senses often bring up little reminders of her on his darkest days, like little lights to guide him back into the world of the living now that she's not there by his side to lead the way. Today is one of those days again. Not the worst he's had, but enough that he could use a little something to pull him back into the light. Profiling always messes with his head a little bit and he wasn't hundred percent to begin with, but he takes great comfort in the knowledge that they caught the guy and today he managed to make a difference somehow, make the world a better place.

Usually his subconscious comes up with little things: a whiff of her body lotion, her shampoo lingering on the pillowcase she hasn't used in two years, the sound of his name leaving her lips in a quiet whisper that makes him turn around in the grocery store, looking for her.

Not once has he hallucinated her in such detail as the woman sitting in the corner table of the Quantico cafeteria, though. She's lost in thought, staring out the window. The harsh light frames her sharp features against the glass as she lifts her cup towards her lips for a sip but is interrupted by someone wanting a quick word with her.

The conversation only lasts seconds and she's all polite smiles and little nods that make her hair fall in front of her face. The moment the man leaves, the smile slips away and she takes a couple of tentative sips of coffee with her gaze aimed at something in the horizon.

She tucks the hair behind her ear and the gesture makes her look so _young_ for a second that he's taken back to the day she walked through the door into his office and his life. She's even cut her hair back to the sharp bob she had when she was still _Agent Scully, FBI._ The red locks are curling just under her ears now, fiery red in the sunlight, a familiar contrast to her black pantsuit and white button-down shirt.

He glances down at his own, rumpled suit and hideous tie that he loosened at some point yesterday, and he has to smile at the image they make. _Just like the good old days,_ he thinks. She looks like the woman who stood by his side through the years of hell when it was them against the world, when they were young and full of fight and idealism, before the darkness of the world caught up with them and started to drag them under the surface.

Lately he's been lying awake at night, wondering if he'd still recognize her if she passed him on the street and now she's there, perfect like a picture, just the way he remembers her. He's worried the illusion will shatter the moment she notices him, though, that they'll realize they're old and tired now and none of the pieces really fit anymore.

"Excuse me?" someone asks him and he gestures for the man to go ahead, that he's not in the queue, just leaning his hip against the wall with his arms crossed, observing the beautiful redhead on the other side of the room. Probably not the smartest thing to do in a room with several profilers and other highly observant people, he realizes, and decides to join the queue after all, earning a suspicious look from the guy he just told to go ahead.

He keeps his eyes on Scully, watching how people keep approaching her, students and lecturers alike, all with obvious admiration. They all seem to sense their presence is not exactly wanted, though, because none of them linger long or try to sit down, they just say whatever compliments they wanted to give her and then move on, leaving her with her coffee.

He wants to take a picture of her like this, in the bright sunlight, her hands wrapped around her cup of coffee. How many times has he seen that same stance with the coffee cup and the thoughtful look on her face? In dingy diners, police station break rooms or their own kitchen in early mornings when she was up before the sun, waiting for him with a fresh pot of coffee when he made his way to the kitchen... There's something very comforting about the sight, and memories flash in front of his eyes like a movie, making him smile.

Without thinking he finds himself grabbing a croissant on his tray, her guilty pleasure. He takes a sandwich and a cup of coffee for himself and hesitates a moment after the register. She takes that same moment to glance towards him, and their eyes lock. Rest of the room fades away into slow motion white noise and all he can hear is his own heartbeat. He wants to smile but his face refuses to cooperate. Her eyebrow climbs upwards towards her hairline and it seems to pull the corner of her mouth with it, her lips curling into a tiny, lopsided smile at first, before it transforms into a real smile that lights up her whole face. He's brave enough to take that as an invitation and makes his way to her table.

"May I join you for a moment, Scully?" he asks and his heart stops for a few seconds when he realizes it's the first time he's said her name out loud since she walked out of his life two and half years ago.

He's tied all his memories to that name, locked them up in a box titled "Scully" and he's convinced himself that if he speaks that name out loud, he'll lose the memories as well. He used to talk about " _her"_ in therapy. " _What's_ _ **her**_ _name?"_ the therapist finally asked after a few sessions. _"Dana,"_ he whispered after a moment of hesitation. In his defense it's the only lie he's told the woman. Perhaps it was that lie that allowed him to be truthful about everything else.

"Of course, Mulder," she says with a little nod, and it feels like the pieces fit just fine after all as he slides the plate with a croissant in front of her and she pulls the spoon from her cup of coffee to give his a good stir because for some reason he never remembers to take a spoon.

"Thought you were on the other side of the Atlantic," he says and takes a careful bite of his sandwich.

"I was," she says and breaks a piece of the croissant, then dips it in her coffee before bringing it to her lips. "Guest lecturer for two more weeks."

"Then what?"

She shrugs, and he becomes aware of the sadness that lingers in her eyes. She really doesn't know where she'll go next. The Scully he knew always had a direction and a plan how to get there. For the longest time her path was the same as his, but even when it wasn't, she always went with steady steps towards her goals. That's how he remembers her walking out of his life as well: steady steps, no looking back, no hesitation. Pain and regret, yes, but no hesitation. He's not sure what to make of this creature sitting across from him, telling him she has no idea where to go from here.

"You'll figure it out," he finds himself saying out loud, and that earns him a little smile.


	5. Remedy

_No river is too wide or too deep for me to swim to you_  
_Come whenever I'll be the shelter that won't let the rain come through_  
_Your love, it is my truth_  
_And I will always love you_

NAMELESS MOTEL IN A NAMELESS TOWN, JULY 2003

It is day four hundred and fifteen on the run, or perhaps sixteen because the sun is about to rise when his nightmare wakes her up once again. She strokes his sweaty hair and mumbles comforting words until he calms down again and falls back into the deep, restful sleep he so desperately needs because falling asleep doesn't come easy for him anymore, maybe it never did.

There was a time when she would have woken him up when he started trashing but all it did was make him remember the dream and it is hard enough to deal with the pain of the waking hours, she sees no need to add the nightmares on top of the pile. So she guides him through the dreams gently now, reassuring him with her touch and presence. She knows he does if for her, too. Sometimes she wakes up coming down from the panic of a nightmare, his strong hands holding and soothing her, his soft voice humming in her ear. She always pretends to be asleep and he always pretends he didn't notice the change in her breathing.

They are two damaged people, scarred inside and out, and they have lost everyone and everything they ever had except each other. They cling to each other through the nightmares and the pain of their losses, old wounds that might never stop bleeding. She never expected it to be easy. They both seem to be drowning in their own darkness but somehow they still manage to guide the other one towards the light.

After all the years hunting for the truth, she has found the biggest one right here, in his love for her. And her own love for him. That is the only truth they have now, the only thing that keeps them afloat when the world they knew crumbles around them into distant memories.

They have new identities every week, new town, new cheap motels, always moving, changing, hiding. But they are together, and as long as that remains true, they are invincible. She can't keep his nightmares away, but she can keep them from hurting him. She can keep him safe, she can save him.

His breathing finally evens out as the remnants of the nightmare flutter away, and his body relaxes under her touch. She kisses his forehead gently and curls her petite body around his, like she could physically shield him from any harm that might be heading his way.

All they own fits into two small suitcases: clothes and toiletries, nothing personal, but they have everything as long as they have each other.


	6. Water Under the Bridge

_What are you waiting for?_  
_You never seem to make it through the door_  
_And who are you hiding from?_  
_It ain't no life to live like you're on the run_  
_Have I ever asked for much?_  
_The only thing that I want is your love_

THE UNREMARKABLE HOUSE, JUNE 2010

They are falling apart. Mulder is... pushing her away. At least it feels that way. Like he is slowly trying to make her understand that she should leave, but he's not brave enough to say the words. Some days he makes her feel like an unwelcome guest in the house they bought. And some days he locks himself in the office and leaves her wandering the rooms of their house like it was all hers.

Every now and then she's tempted to just pack a bag and be gone, but no matter how unbearable his presence is some days, the thought of a life without Mulder is worse. And just when she's reaching the end of her patience, he holds her so tight at night and whispers sweet nothings in her ear when he makes love to her and for a brief moment she feels like the center of his universe again. She tells herself she can't walk away as long as there is any hope at all.

Professionally, all has been forgiven now and they officially exist again as citizens of the United States, but there is a part of Mulder that is unable let go of his fugitive state. He never leaves the house, never has contact with anyone other than her and lately even that has been sporadic at best.

One Saturday morning when the smell of fresh coffee pulls him out of his office in five days worth of stubble and clothes from the day before yesterday, she finally decides she's had enough.

"What are you doing, Mulder?" she asks, her voice even and firm, her gaze aimed at his face. He freezes with his cup halfway to his mouth and his eyes lock with hers.

"Researching recent UFO sightings in Texas?"

The hesitant intonation makes it a question instead of an answer, and she just stares, wondering how to proceed.

"You're losing yourself in your search," she finally says, and he turns his gaze to his coffee, unable to handle the intensity of her eyes. "You're pushing  _me_ away while you pursue your consipiracies."

He flinches at that, reminding her of a frightened animal.

"If you want me gone, Mulder, at least have the decency to tell me."

It's funny, really. She has practiced this confrontation so many times in her head, but in those scenarios she's always screaming in anger. Now her words come out tired and that feels worse somehow.

"Don't just pretend you don't care about me at all because I know that's not true. We're worth more than that, Mulder. We've been trough hell together so many times. Our love is not something you just switch off when it becomes inconvenient to your obsession."

"I'm sorry," he says, looking right into her eyes, her soul. "I'll do better."

She desperately wants to believe him, so she swallows the lump in her throat and nods.


	7. River Lea

_I should probably tell you now before it's way too late_  
_That I never meant to hurt you or lie straight to your face_  
_Consider this my apology, I know it's years in advance_  
_But I'd rather say it now in case I never get the chance_

NAMELESS MOTEL SOMEWHERE IN THE US, OCTOBER 2002

The digital alarm clock on the bedside table is a little broken, like most things in this motel room, the occupants included. It's ten past something, but the first number on the clock has three horizontal lines and one vertical, in the lower right corner. _Either a three or a five_ , he thinks to himself. _Or maybe an eight if the clock is as big of a mess as I am._

Only light in the room is the eerie cold glow of the streetlamp being filtered through the little tears in the curtains. Not even a hint of sunrise in the horizon, as far as he can tell, so three seems like a more likely guess. Not that it makes any difference.

Scully is curled up against his chest, naked under the thin sheet that covers them. Her even breaths hit that one spot on his chest that she has somehow claimed as hers over the years. It's at eye level for her when they are standing face to face in flat shoes, and somehow she always gravitates towards that same spot when they cuddle as well. She's starting to shiver, as the sweat from her nightmare slowly cools onto her skin. He reaches over her slowly, doing his best not to jostle her as he grabs a hold of the comforter and pulls it over them. At least he managed to calm her down from the dream without waking her up this time. 

Two main feelings constantly battling in his head are guilt and gratefulness. Never has he been more grateful about having Scully by his side but at the same time, never has he felt more guilty about dragging her into this mess.

It is an odd thing, the life of a fugitive. It pushes them closer together and pulls them further apart than anything ever before. They are together twenty-four-seven most days, because they don't dare to leave the other one without backup and they are all the backup they have. 

_Trust no one_ . 

All that is real is the two of them in a bubble of lies they have built around themselves, and they must rely heavily on each other to maintain a sense of right and wrong, a baseline to their existence. But at the same time the only distance they can put between them is on the emotional level, so they have started to keep secrets. It's a coping mechanism, but it's also tearing him apart.

"I'm sorry, Scully," he whispers into her hair, softly enough that she sleeps right through his words. He's uncertain what he's apologizing for. All of it, maybe. For pulling her into his world, because it has caused her so much pain and she has lost so much. But he's also apologizing for the things yet to come.

No one goes through the things he has gone through and ends up as a sane, reliable grown-up. He is always tainted with the mess he's gone through and he leaves a mess behind. Sooner or later he hurts the people he loves the most. And though he has already brought more pain on Scully than he wants to think about, he fears there is more to come at the end of this new life of theirs.

"So sorry, Scully," he sighs and nuzzles the top of her head.

  
  



	8. Love in the Dark

_That's why I can't love you in the dark_  
_It feels like we're oceans apart_  
_There is so much space between us_  
_Maybe we're already defeated_  
_'Cause ah-yeah-yeah-yeah-yeah-yeah-yeah everything changed me_  
_And I-I-I-I-I don't think you can save me_

THE UNREMARKABLE HOUSE, OCTOBER 2012

There's fifteen feet of hardwood floor spreading between them and in some odd way it reminds her of dusty dirt roads in old westerns as they stare at each other over the distance. But the shot has been fired already and now she's watching the life slowly bleed out of his eyes as she stands there with her suitcase by her side. She needs to leave, to turn around and walk out before she gives in to the wordless pleading of his gaze, but she can't bring herself to turn her back to him. This space belongs to both of them and she finds herself treating it like holy ground. The least she can do for him is show respect as long as they occupy the same space.

She turns her gaze to the floor next to her and picks up the suitcase. It weighs next to nothing. They only had a few items when they hit the road all those years ago, fugitives. They have gathered a life around them now, in this little house in the middle of nowhere, but she can't bring herself to take anything of _theirs_ with her for the fear that she will drag the darkness out of that doorway with her.

It was never easy for them, but she wasn't expecting easy anyway. They were exact opposites in so many ways, but they were soulmates as well. Their passions fed each other, they completed each other, together they were more than the sum of their parts. So much more, for so long.

The darkness crept in little by little. As long as she has known him, he has been carefully balancing on that line between passion and obsession. Now it is obvious that he is too far on the other side to be pulled back anymore. At least by her.

She's fighting her own demons now, monsters that sneaked in some time after they stopped watching each other's backs. They used to be partners, a team, heading in the same direction although they occasionally took different routes to get there. Now they are two beams of light occasionally crossing in the middle of a huge darkness that seems to want to swallow them up whole. His light is almost gone now and hers is dimming. She needs to leave, to burst free and into the sunlight, before she loses herself with him.

"Please know that I don't regret anything, Mulder," she told him earlier, when there was still enough strength left in her to get words past her lips. "You are my world, my life. You have been for such a long time and you always will, but--" And that's when she ran out of words, the unfinished sentence hanging in the stale air between them. He nodded, and she knew he understood.

He has yet to say a word since he found her packing. He hasn't asked where she's going, if he can call, if someone is going to pick up the rest of her belongings next week or if he should send them somewhere. He just looks at her with so much pain in his eyes that he reminds her of a badly glued together vase that might crumble into pieces on the floor because of one weak spot. Perhaps that is why he doesn't say anything, why he only takes shallow breaths and stands so still she feels the urge to check his pulse just to see if he's still alive.

She takes a deep breath, one hand squeezing the handle of the suitcase, another the door handle, and lifts her gaze to his face again, hoping he would have turned away but he's not going to give her an inch. _So this is what it comes down to_ , she finds herself thinking. _After twenty years, this is what it comes down to._

"Goodbye, Mulder," she whispers and pushes the door handle down.


	9. Million Years Ago

_I wish I could live a little more_  
_Look up to the sky, not just the floor_  
_I feel like my life is flashing by_  
_And all I can do is watch and cry_  
_I miss the air, I miss my friends_  
_I miss my mother, I miss it when_  
_Life was a party to be thrown_  
_But that was a million years ago_

QUANTICO CAFETERIA, MARCH 2015

"How's life?" he asks after a moment of companionable silence. It seems like a harmless enough question, yet it makes her eyes flash with so many emotions in a blink of an eye that he doesn't know what to make of it.

"My sister-in-law's back on her feet," she says and eats another piece of the croissant. "The cancer is in remission."

"That's good to hear," he says with a little nod and tries to decide if he should call her out on the fact that it's not exactly an answer. "And you?" he finally asks.

"Back on my feet?"

It could be a question or it could be an answer, he's not quite sure how to read her intonation so he just nods, and she doesn't elaborate.

"How are you doing, Mulder?" she asks, aiming her gaze in her coffee like she was afraid of the answer.

"I'm fine, Scully," he says and he means it. The name still feels odd but it doesn't leave a vacuum in his heart like he feared it would. He can see her tensing up and realizes the mistake of his choice of words. _Fine_ has never meant fine with the two of them. It means _I'm going through hell but I won't let you help me_.

"Let me rephrase that," he says, because he owes her an honest answer to a simple question. He doesn't have a whole lot to offer but he can give her that.

"Please do."

"There are good days and bad days," he admits with a shrug. "But I found a great shrink and a combination of meds that works. We're even cutting down the doses a little bit now. So for the most parts I'm okay now. At the very least I'm better."

That doesn't take much, considering what a mess he was when she left, but anything more than that feels like a lie today when he's still coming down from the adrenaline rush of getting inside the head of a killer, when he's trying hard to banish the darkness with focusing on the little good things in his life.

She nods again but doesn't say anything, despite the fact that he can see there are words bubbling right under the surface, demanding to be let out. He reaches over the distance between their trays and covers her hand with his.

"I miss my life," she says the moment his skin touches hers, like that tiniest touch was all it took to break her resolve. She heaves a sigh and pulls her hand away like it was burned, setting up some of her walls again. "Being back here..." she starts and then stops, staring into her coffee again. "I feel like my life is flashing by my eyes, Mulder. I feel like I'm watching in the sidelines as everything falls into pieces."

"What's falling into pieces, Scully?" He wants to ask if she means the two of them but they fell apart a long time ago and shattered the night she walked out. If anything, they're falling together more than they're falling apart right now, in this moment.

"My mother is getting old."

His heart jumps into his throat right away. "How's Maggie?" he asks, trying to sound casual. He wonders if anyone would bother informing him if something had happened to her, to the woman who has been more of a mother to him over the last twenty years than his own mother ever could manage.

"She's fine," Scully says with a little smile, sensing his panic and trying to reassure him. "She's just... It's the little things, you know? The lines are deeper around her eyes, there's more gray than black in her hair, she doesn't remember things like she used to... She's getting _old_. Not dying, not just yet, but..."

 _Reaching the home stretch,_ he wants to say but doesn't. Instead he nods.

"And I just wasted two years of my life, of _her_ life, our time together on this planet, trying to run away from something I can't escape. I feel like an idiot, Mulder."

"You're many things, Scully, but never an idiot. Ever."

"I miss the good old days. When our biggest worry was being shot at. When life made _sense._ "

"That was a long time ago, Scully. And I'm afraid time has done it's job on the memories." He wants to say things must be pretty rough right now if she remembers being shot at with such fondness, if the inexplicable nature of the X-Files made more sense than her life right now, but everything about her body language is screaming she's _tired_ , so tired. He knows that feeling too well, knows he'd take a good bullet over it any day himself.

"You know what's funny?" she asks.

Nothing, probably, about the current situation, but he doesn't dare to say that out loud. "Tell me."

"I could live with my choices. Back then. Everything, every _one_ I lost because of the choices I made... There was a purpose to it. I even learned to live with giving up our son. But I can't live with the fact that I gave _you_ up, Mulder."

He reaches out to take her hand again and this time she doesn't pull it away.

The touch seems to break through her defences again.

"You were my anchor, Mulder," she says and looks straight into his eyes, the intensity of her gaze almost overwhelming. "And now I'm adrift at sea." _I'm sorry_ , the unspoken words linger in the air between her words.

"I was a dead weight pulling you down, Scully," he says softly. "You had no choice."

She nods and gives him a sad smile, and he can see she's trying to decide if she can accept the forgiveness he is offering her.


	10. All I Ask

_And I ain't asking for forgiveness_  
_All I ask is_  
_If this is my last night with you_  
_Hold me like I'm more than just a friend_  
_Give me a memory I can use_  
_Take me by the hand while we do what lovers do_

THE UNREMARKABLE HOUSE, OCTOBER 2012

"Stay," he whispers when she's already halfway out the door. She freezes and her shoulders slump. "Just tonight. Just... this one night, Scully. That's all I ask." Her flight won't leave until tomorrow morning but this is not about saving the price of a hotel room, this is about saving a piece of his soul and he's not above begging, though he doesn't want to make this harder on her than it already is.

"Mulder..." _Please don't do this_ , she's pleading with just the way she sighs his name.

"Don't leave like this. I understand. I do. I just don't want this to be my last memory of you."

He doesn't say anything else. Heaven knows he could. There are so many ways he could try to guilt her into staying, but that is not what he wants.

Seconds tick by and they are frozen in time, his eyes drilling a hole in the back of her head. Wind is creeping in through the open door, turning the pages of the abandoned medical journal on the coffee table. Just last night she was reading it right there, curled up in the corner of the couch, sipping her tea. She seemed fine. Not much more than that but fine.

He knows now that she got tired of feeling fine and nothing more, tired of fighting her demons while he was being consumed by his, tired of being alone with him. Just tired. He is tired, too, but he has nowhere to run.

She takes a step back, so slowly that he almost misses it despite staring at her without blinking. Another step, and then she closes the door, still moving in slow motion like someone was rewinding a movie frame by frame. Her back is still turned to him, and when she freezes again with her hand on the door handle, he knows she's expecting a final clue from him, something that will either make her stay or leave.

"Please," he whispers.

She turns around, slowly, and her eyes connect with his. There are no tears, but plenty of pain, and he thinks she would like to cry but can't. He wonders what his face tells her, if his pain is visible to her like hers is to him.

He knows she has gone as far as she can, so he takes the next step and closes the distance, one step at a time, until he is standing close enough to smell the faint scent of her shampoo. She doesn't tilt her head back to look at him, but keeps staring at that one spot on his chest that she probably knows by heart. If he ever gets drunk enough to tattoo her name on his skin, it would go right there, where her eyes have bored holes for years.

He doesn't dare to touch her because he feels like the choice should be hers. After a few seconds of just listening to each other breathe, she lets her forehead drop against that very spot she just stared, and he wonders if he really should get that tattoo because that spot belongs to her and no one else, not even him. He wraps his arms around her and pulls her close.

Somehow they manage to make their way to the bedroom without letting go of each other. Not in a passionate stumble that leaves a trail of discarded clothing in their trail, but like a slow dance to a song only they can hear. Her hot breaths hit that same spot where he has already mentally carved her name, and her small hands are hot against the cool skin of his lower back where they have sneaked underneath his T-shirt.

His arms are around her shoulders now, tightly hugging her against him. She's still wearing her jacket, and it feels like a metaphor somehow, how he is in his thin T-shirt and she has these layers and layers on her, between them, trying to put on a buffer against his touch. His lips hover just over her forehead, hesitating whether he has the right to kiss her anymore.

He turns on the lights when they reach the bedroom, but she hits the switch right after him and drowns the room in shadows and moonlight. He never understood the significance of the lights and it's too late to ask now, but he follows her lead and they find their way in the dark. That, as well, feels oddly metaphorical all of a sudden.

Slowly her hands start to lift his T-shirt out of his jeans and off his body, and his fingers unbutton her jacket and slowly slide it off her shoulders. No words are exchanged as they undress each other, folding each piece of clothing on the arm rests of the chair in the corner. He wonders if it is out of respect for this moment, the need to make it beautiful and organized somehow instead of the mess they have become, or if it is the practical knowledge that she will leave early, while he's still asleep, and she will need to find her things and dress in the dark.

There are no words, and they never hold the eye contact for long, but their hands wander on each other's familiar skin like they always have, and lips press against cool skin in the tiniest of kisses, never on the lips but everywhere else.

When he's inside her, he links his fingers with hers, trapping both of her hands next to her head. As much as they have avoided eye contact ever since she declared she was leaving and not coming back, they are unable to look away now. He has never felt more vulnerable than in this moment, with his soul bared for her to see, as they move together.

When she throws her head back and comes with a silent sigh, he follows her over the edge and tries not to think about the fact that this is probably the last time he will see her like this. He smiles, just a little, and swipes a strand of hair from her forehead behind her ear as they try to catch their breaths. The corners of her lips curl up a little and she tries to fight the tears that start to rise into her eyes.

He rolls them over so that she's resting on top of him, and tries to ignore the way her silent tears hit that very spot on his chest. He wonders if there would be a dent there, like dropping water erodes stone over time, if she were to stay longer than one night. Then again, why would he want her to stay if it meant she kept crying?


	11. Sweetest Devotion

_I've been looking for you, baby_  
_In every face that I've ever known_  
_And there is something 'bout the way you love me_  
_That finally feels like home_  
_All my life, you're my darkness_  
_You're the right kind of madness_  
_And you're my hope, you're my despair_  
_You're my scope, everything, everywhere_

QUANTICO CAFETERIA, MARCH 2015

He is different now, she realizes as they stare into each other's eyes, his hand still covering hers on the table. He's more... _here_ now. His eyes look sharp again, and they look at her like they could see all the way to her very soul. They probably can, she realizes. They always could.

There is so much hidden about him, too, so much bubbling just underneath the surface. It's such a complete opposite of the broken, hollow man she left behind two and a half years ago. Back then there was absolutely nothing hidden about him, he was just as empty a shell as he appeared to be, wearing what was left of his heart in his sleeve. There was a time when his eyes were full of pain, but most days towards the end they were haunted with dull emptiness.

Some of the pain still lingers, some of that familiar darkness lurking nearby, but there is peace in those eyes as well. And love. That surprises her the most. He never says the word out loud, nor does he acknowledge the emotion in any way. He seems perfectly happy to just harbor it quietly inside him, yet somehow it is radiating from his very presence.

She knows that look, that hint of a smile and that little twinkle in his eyes. It is oh so familiar to her, yet still the realization hits her like a sledgehammer and she pulls her hand away from his grasp, needing a little bit of space to get her balance again before she drowns in the warmth of his gaze.

"Scully?" he asks and she loves the way her name rolls off his tongue. "You OK?"

She forces a little smile on her lips, hoping to reassure him.

"What do you see when you close your eyes and think of home, Mulder?" she asks.

"The porch of our house," he says without hesitation.

"What else?"

"Us. The sun is setting. You have a glass of wine and that gray running sweater of mine that you always stole from the hamper." He smiles a little at the memory, or perhaps it is more of a fantasy, built of several individual memories. "What about you?"

"This," she sighs and reaches over the table to caress his face with her right hand. She smooths the lines on his forehead with her fingertips, then slides her fingers down the side of his face, gently rubbing the slight stubble on his chin with her thumb. "I see your face, Mulder," she whispers. "Your beautiful, smiling face. Your eyes full of life and watching me with such awe and admiration."

He turns his head a little to plant a light kiss on her palm and she has to blink to keep the tears at bay. How did she think she could walk away from this? He is everything to her. Her downfall and her savior, her darkness and her guiding light. Her life is, was and always will be entwined with his. It is pointless to deny it.

"Welcome home, Scully," he whispers and gives her palm another kiss.

~The End~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Feedback is always appreciated. Please let me know how I did.


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